


Burning Blue

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Castiel in the Bunker, Comforting Castiel, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Scared Castiel, Scary Movies, Takes place around late season 9 or 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s questioned his decisions before, but none more regrettable than this—and that says a lot coming from someone who’s killed thousands of imitations of said best friend. But Dean’s smile at full caliber could light a match and set the West up in flames, so Cas slapped on his flame-retardant suit and set out for what was somehow an even profounder bonding experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics derive from David Nail's "I'm a Fire".

_I'm a fire because of you_

_Oh, I'm a fire, burning blue_

 

 

Cas clutches Dean’s arm. Dean breathes calcium into his bones unlike this… this _abstract abomination_ that fills his bones with lead. Soon his flammable parts will spread like a forest fire and burn his skeleton.

It was Dean’s idea to watch a slew (or slaughter) of gore films, insisting “It’ll be fun, man,” with the light smack of lips as they unveiled white squares, “We’re due for a guy’s night. Besides, Sam won’t be back from Eileen’s till Richie croons, and it’ll be a bonding experience, right?”

He’s questioned his decisions before, but none more regrettable than this—and that says a lot coming from someone who’s killed thousands of imitations of said best friend. But Dean’s smile at full caliber could light a match and set the West up in flames, so Cas slapped on his flame-retardant suit and set out for what was somehow an even profounder bonding experience.

“Uh, you okay there, Cas?”

At the rate he’s going, Cas has enough body heat to feed an army of children. He shakes and shakes, hand coiling around Dean’s arm like the mouth on a Venus flytrap, slow and strenuous, but says, “I’m good.”

“That so?” He can’t see Dean because he and 7 billion other humans watch scary movies in the dark. Like hoodlums. But the urgency in his voice is delivered on a loudspeaker, “Because you look like you just found out you’re gonna be credited in _Human Centipede 3.”_

“What?”

“It’s—never mind, we won’t even get to that one.” Dean pauses the screen, which makes Cas’s face even redder. Dean groans as he slinks like a retired roly poly into a sidelong position. He’s donning a _Cream_ shirt that looks more like a wet rag as it folds over the waistband of his monochrome PJs. They’re flannel, a pattern Cas can get lost in—especially if it’s green. “Not a fan of Wan, huh?”

Cas’s face contorts like he’s dispelling a bad smell. “Who?”

“Wow, Metatron did _not_ get out enough.”

“Dean, I can quote Aragorn’s _Return of the King_ battle speech, the _extended_ version,” Cas scoffs, relieving some of the grating tension on his bones. “Metatron may not have gotten out much, but he got around.”

Dean actually laughs—a sound so deep and rich it can’t be translated into Enochian, “I’ll take you up on that.” He hesitates in favor of making the world’s smallest violin out of a few loose fabrics, not looking at Cas as he asks in a small voice, “So, why’re you all sweaty?”

“What?” Cas squawks, “We’re a respectable distance apart, how did you—?”

“Cas, your hands are Mardi Gras. I’d know, I’ve _hooked up_ with people at Mardi Gras.”

Cas huffs, probably sounding like a three-year-old not over their “so last year” tantrums, “I’m just—not used to seeing all this violence.” That sounds pathetic because like a grandfather clock, he knows what Dean is going to chime next.

At least he doesn’t laugh when he says matter-of-factly, “Cas, violence is _all_ we see, every day on the hour. We’ve both killed our fair share of people—er, angels. And demons. And things that’ve _already_ been killed. Hell, we’d survive Daryl and Rick.”

“I see you as more of a Negan.” Dean does a double take as Cas continues, “And I’m aware of the pain and suffering I’ve caused—I’m still trying to forgive myself for every scar I’ve laid upon your body, Dean—but it’s just… I don’t know, don’t people watch things to _escape_ reality?”

“Well most people’s reality isn’t Banshees, Tramps, and Tridents,” he replies, unfazed. Cas’s face falls and Dean catches it with his follow-up statement a second later, “But hey, there’re bigger things to be afraid of.”

Cas narrows his eyes, not quite lifting his head to meet Dean’s. “Like what?”

There’s a weight hanging over them, forcing a long, tense silence onto them that can’t be cut with the First Blade. Then Dean’s looking at him the way Cas does when Dean’s not looking, and says, “Like love.”

Cas’s face twists into an even tighter pretzel as he sits up. “I don’t understand, Dean.”

“Well, you know, love is complex,” he continues, and now _he’s_ the one shaking as he plays his violin, “and for most people, things that’re hard to understand are scary.” He pauses, eyes flickering to the screen. “Gore, it’s not a genre for adrenaline junkies or people like Sammy calling themselves ‘true crime hobbyists’ or whatever—it’s for people who’d rather focus on the bad than the _really_ bad.”

“But Dean, why is love bad?” Cas asks plaintively, “I mean, I love you and Sam, and probably would’ve grown to love Charlie as well. You once said the three of us have always been enough. Isn’t love the common denominator that makes it so? How is that complex?”

“Dammit, Cas, you can’t just go around saying things like that.”

“But Dean—”

“ _Cas,”_ Dean pleads, swinging his legs over the bed so his back faces Cas. It’s a marvelous back, with enough dips and structure to make Stonehenge look like an ancient playground, but it’s not the side of Dean Cas wants to see in moments like these.

Cas’s knees sink into the memory foam like snow as he silently crosses the bed. He hovers behind him until his nasal cavities are diluted by musk and motor oil. Laying a tentative hand on Dean’s left shoulder, he asks quietly, “Dean, why can’t I express my— _things,_ to you?”

“Because you just can’t, Cas,” he growls sternly.

“But love is something humans do,” Cas argues, holding venom from his bite, “and last I remembered, I fell _for_ humanity. I fell for you, Dean.”

Cas feels Dean’s shoulders tighten and before he can do anything, Dean’s swiveling around with the grace of an antique ballerina jewelry box and sealing his lips with Cas’s.

Despite the cornucopia of thoughts whirling around his head like a hornet’s nest, Cas relaxes into the kiss with gentle hands just above Stonehenge and allows himself to be guided onto the bed again.

Between tender tongues and hands, every part of Cas feels like it’s spontaneously combusting.

 

And by God, let him burn.

 

 

_We're all gonna fall, that's part of the plan_

_Hold on to each other when we got no place to stand_

_When it feels like we're a million miles apart_

_I'll be shouting for you in the dark_


End file.
